


Something Else That Could Have Happened

by Blanca_Angelic_Loveless



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blanca_Angelic_Loveless/pseuds/Blanca_Angelic_Loveless
Summary: Sherlock's plane doesn't turn around, but that's really just a bumb in the road.Just a small au one shot





	Something Else That Could Have Happened

There was a timer ticking down to zero in John head, that started the moment the plane took off in a small airport in January. It was set for six months, and John thought about it every time he looked at the clock, or the calendar.

Sherlock had until the end of June. About thirty weeks. Exactly 181 day. John woke up every morning wondering if Sherlock was still alive out there solving the case, if he would, in fact solve it before the timer ran out. He knew every day exactly how many were left and he never lost count or forgot.

When Rosie was born in early February, John was happy, he smiled and laughed and he kissed his daughter and cried for happiness for a first time in and very, very long time. They named her Rosamund Mary Sherlock Watson only half in genuine tribute to their friends, and half because after being in labor for hours and hours, in her exhausted state Mary had found it immensely funny, and they'd both had the hardest laugh of their life at the idea Sherlock had believed they would believe his was a girl’s name. It had been too nice a moment to not, then, include the name for sheer sentimentalities sake.

But John still didn't forget, and when the days ticked down doubt digits, well, John stayed home with Rosie and Mary and nobody questioned it. He determinedly bounced back the very next day- ninety-eight days left- and got right back on with his life. Just like last time. Only better. Because he knew ths truth. And he had Mary and Rosie, and all of his friends to support him. And he was fine. He was determined to be fine.

Until the last weeks came and John sudden found he saw Sherlock everywhere, and was almost convinced he'd been lied to again, and that Sherlock was stalking him. And then the days reached single digits and he couldn't focus on his his patients, because what kind of case should he have been working anyway, and he is Sherlock Holmes, if anyone could not die like they were supposed to, it'd be him… right?

He didn't go to work the final week of June, and couldn't make himself get out of bed for the last three days.

John woke up July 1st to the sight of Mary laying in bed watching him, with Rosie asleep between them. Her eyes were red, and her smile sad.

“Six months.” John said.

“Six months.” she repeated.

Neither got out of bed that day, they simply laid there and mourned for their very best friend. Or at least, that was the plan.

“Do you think we'd ever get him to change her nappy?” John asks, a small smile playing on his face, as Mary lays back down with Rosie later that day, after having just changed the baby’s nappy herself.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.” Mary nods.

“You think so?”

“I wouldn't let him not,” Mary replies confidently. 

“He’d go on the whole time about the indignity of it.” John says, and he wants to laugh because it's meant to be a joke, but instead a sob escapes. It claws its way up his throat, and his confidence in Mary’s love is the only thing that keeps him from turn his head away in shame. He's been crying all day, and one might think he'd at least be done with the water works, but new things about Sherlock just keep popping into his head, and dredging all the miserable grief back to the surface.

But still, life went on. For two more years it went on. Wounds healed, and better memories made. Rosie learned to walk and talk early, and Mary, Molly and Greg came to the ridiculous conclusion, that John had a have cheated on Mary with Sherlock while she was pregnant, and it was a surprise when, instead of pain, John only felt mirth at the idea, and was able to laugh along with the rest of them at the “scandal” they’d uncovered. They visited Mrs. Hudson often, and resolutely stayed in touch with everyone. Mycroft even came by once, with a bear and an offer to make sure Rosie got into any of the best pre-school if they wanted his assistance with such a thing. They kept the bear and politely declined the pre-school offer. He'd further insisted, as he was leaving, that he really would be willing to help if they ever needed anything. John smiled, and thanked him, because he knew this came from his guilt over Sherlock’s death, and said he'd think about it.

So yes, life was good in the Watson household. It was good for two year, until one night in August when John and Mary both awoke to the rather loud commotion of someone in the kitchen. In less than an instant both were out of bed, guns in hand, and creeping towards towards kitchen. Rosie's room was mercifully right next to theirs, and it'd only took a second for John to hurry in and check that she was still sleeping sound, before both parents were headed down the stairs to confront the moron in their kitchen.

From the hallway in the downstairs that leads into a kitchen, it's easier to see that a light was on, and the sound was of two people moving around, not one. One of them is a woman, but that's not observes from her footsteps, but rather that, for all she's trying to whisper, she's not very good at it.

“-ey’ve got guns. It'd be a shame to come all the way here to get shot.” A pause, a scraping sound at someone pulls out a chair from the dining table. “This is idiotic.”

There's a hushed whisper from the other, but it's too low to understand.

“Do people really do it like this?” The woman asks. A rattling of China being sat down on the table. “It's seems a waste of time so much easier just to show up while they're awake.”

A very distinct shush noise from the other.

Creeping towards the kitchen, but being careful not to be spotted by staying out of the light, the couple get their first sight of the woman sitting at the dining table. She's deathly pales, with brown eyes and hair that had been pulled into a low ponytail. She's wearing white from head to toe, with the exception a grey hoodie. She's looking off into the the kitchen, which neither Watson can see from this angle at what must be the other intruder and she has set the table. Four mismatched cups on four mismatched saucers, a spoon for each as well, the entire carton of milk, and a pile of sugar cubes on one of Rosie's little plastic plates.

“You should get a sippy cup out,” she said into the kitchen, where the other intruder no doubt is the one making all the racket, rifling through their pantry. “The baby’s going to wake up when they shout.”

Mary and John share a look at this, but they're quickly distracted as a green sippy cup and a sleeve of chocolate chip cookies come flying out of the kitchen to be caught by the woman and set on the table.

“Also, they're standing in the hallway.”

Mary, reacts first, stepping out of shadows with her gun raised, so she sees the face of the other intruder first, and she stops so suddenly that John nearly smacked right into her.

“Oh my God! You!” Mary shouts, dropping her gun to the floor and running towards the kitchen past the woman at the table as if she weren't even there. John immediately raises his gun to the woman at this, and she raises her hands, with a wide grin on her face as though a gun was no kind of threat to her livelihood despite what she'd said only a moment earlier.

Then he turns to see what's got Mary, his Assassin Wife, so ready to drop her gun, and his falls to the floor too.

It's Sherlock. It's the tall and skinny detective standing in his kitchen with his curly hair and his cheekbones, and John’s wife clinging to him for dear life. It's Sherlock.

It's Sherlock. He's not dead.

Mary steps back, and John can really look at Sherlock. He's wearing the same white shirt, pants and shoes as the woman, his black curls are longer that he remembers his best friend ever keeping them, and even though he's clean, and shaven he looks... less than well. He doesn't move, or open his mouth to start explaining, and so John takes the initiative.

“Where the hell…” John starts out in almost a whisper at least. “Have you BEEN!? You said you'd be dead in six months! What the hell!?”

“Six months?” said the woman. “Well that's and bit harsh, even I don't think Sherrinford’s that bad.”

“And who the hell is she for that matter!?” John point towards the woman.

“Muuummy? Daaaaddy?” Rosie's shouts break through the tension like sledge hammer to glass.

Mary moves away from Sherlock, then. “I’ll just. Get her. You were making tea right? Yeah, good. Okay.” Quickly, Mary leaves the room picking her gun up a he goes.

“Maybe we can… sit down?” Sherlock offense hesitantly, gesturing to the table. 

The three of them are sitting quietly, and dutifully making their cups of tea when Mary returns with the toddler on her hip. The woman, who still hasn't been introduced, sits at the head of the table with Sherlock and John on either side, having a silent battle of wills through nothing but sharp, occasional glances.

Sherlock, though, he lights up as soon as he sees Rosie. Sitting up a bit straighter he says, “Oh, she's beautiful. Hello, sweetie.” he waves a little at the toddler, who shyly turns into her mother’s neck in response. “What's her name?”

“Rosie. Short for Rosamund.” Mary answers, taking her seat. “C’mon, Rosie, don't be shy. This is Uncle Sherlock, he's Daddy’s best friends.”

“Sherlock?” The girl ask, peeking out from her mother neck to properly study this new stranger sitting in her house. “Like my name?”

“Yup, just like your name.”

“You did name her after me?” Sherlock laughed, looking at John, who was admittedly not capable of staying anger in in light of Sherlock's smile.

“And Mary,” John corrects. “Rosamund Mary Sherlock Watson.”

“Ah, well it's very nice to meet you Rosamund, I'm Sherlock Holmes.” he offers her his hand from across table, and she delightedly reaches across to shake his hand.

And then she turns to the woman, “And who are you?” 

“Eurus.” says the woman, downing her entire cup of tea.

“And you know Sherlock, how?” John asks. Once the woman puts the cup back in the saucer.

Sherlock suddenly became very fascinated in his own cup. “I’m sure you could figure it out, John. It is actually one of your more common theories.”

“Oh no. No no. No. I'm not playing games. Who is she, and where have you been for a last two year!?” John demanded.

Before the detective could answer, the woman giggling and sang. “Help succour me now, the East Winds blow. Sixteen-by-six, brother, and under we go.”

John only stares at her for a moment.

East winds… Brother...

“Wait! Is she your- do you have and sister!?” Mary shouted.

“Yes.” Sherlock says firmly taking his apparent sister’s lead and downing his cup of tea as well.

“For how long?” John asks dumbly,

“Oh, most of his life,” Eurus answers. “He’d just gone and forgot me is all.”

“Yes, well you did murder my best friends.” Sherlock snaps at Eurus. “It was a bit traumatizing.”

“You should have been more clever-”

“Sherlock.” Mary cut in. “What is going on. Do I need to take Rosie somewhere safe?”

“What? Oh no, Eurus is fine, we were children. Besides, you're both safer with use in the house at the moment than you would be anywhere else.”

“Sherlock, could please stop being mysterious for one second and just explain yourself?” John says.

“Yes. Right. Well…” Sherlock starts. “I’d just like a start off by saying, John, I really did think I was going to die. My leaving again, I wasn't in on the trick this time, I swear.”

“What. Trick?” John asked.

“The Holmes Containment Protocol.” Eurus is the one to answer, taking one of the neglected cookies out of the sleeve. “It might not come as a surprise to you, but I'm more clever than either of my brothers. But neither my brothers or I are either the first geniuses in the family or Sherlock and I the first murderers. The government’d had enough of us in the earlier fifties, so now any time someone in the family snaps-” she snapped the cookie in half, sending crumbs flying everywhere with a smile “-their deaths are faked, and they're spirited away to Sherrinford Asylum, on a island in the middle of the ocean, to live out the rest of their days in a maximum security facility where they can't do any more damage to the delicate system of things.”

\----

Sherlock fell asleep on the plane, and when he woke, regardless of the drugs in his system, or his compromised emotional state, he knew something had gone horribly wrong before he'd even opened his eyes.

To start with, the obvious. He was no longer on the plane, but rather laying down on a bed. One with a new mattress, new pillow, and freshly washed sheets. They'd used a hypoallergenic, unscented detergent. So not someone's home. A place with many many people that used the sheets interchangeably, and the staff couldn't risk an allergy to those using the beds.

Second, he wasn't wearing any shoes and the clothing he was wearing were not the form fitting clothes he's been wearing on the plane, but instead loose fitting and frankly very soft. Also washed in the same hypoallergenic, unscented detergent as the bed sheets. So whoever had brought him wherever he was had taken his clothes.

Third, the drugs he'd taken before the airport had completely run their course, though he wasn't yet feeling the symptoms of withdrawal, so it was under twenty-four hours since he'd been on the plane.

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. He found himself in a dimly lit and large oval room with grey carpeted walls and floor. There was a thick glass panels separating his half of the room from the half with the door. The room was furnished with only the barest necessities; his bed, a table attached to the wall with a bench on the side farther from the glass, a toilet and sink in a little alcove in one side of the wall, all on his side, and three chairs on the other side that reminded Sherlock of hospital room. But also, most surprisingly, on the other side of the glass in one of the chairs was his violin, as well as his music stand, and his sheet music.

On the glass itself there was a sign which read, and he had to read backwards because it was clearly meant for the people on the other side;

CAUTION: MAINTAIN DISTANCE OF THREE FEET

A prison. He was in some kind of prison, in a high security cell. He’d been taken from the government plane, which meant Mycroft knew about it. Mycroft had not been sending his on a case, then. He’d been tricking Sherlock into coming peacefully to his own incarceration. And Dammit he'd fallen for it! He reached out to throw the covers off himself- because not only had he been stripped and re-dress into a set of plain white scrubs by strangers, but also tucked in like some child- and paused when he spotted a silver band encircling left wrist. A quick once-over showed where on the underside the little thing was clasped onto his wrist like a handcuff, but without any keyhole, so it couldn't be easily removed. On the top, where it flattened out into a metal band close to an inch wide, the plain black inscription could be read by anyone who saw it;

WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES  
STATUS: DECEASED  
SECURITY RISK LEVEL: 11  
SITUATIONAL MISDIRECTION  
LEAVE NOTHING CONCEALABLE WITHIN REACH  
PRIVILEGES: PERMANENTLY RESTRICTED

Public status deceased. So Mycroft had faked his death then. Or, well, everyone would think he was dead in six month, no need to do anything more elaborate Sherlock supposed. Simply let all his friends believe he'd died nobly. That was… kind he supposed. Kinder than the last time, surely… 

No! No time for that, Sherlock reprimanded himself, it's time to focus. He had to get out so he could tell John and Mary he wasn't dead at all. So he could expose the government unlawful imprisonment of himself, and likely the others incarcerated here. But most importantly so he could tell mummy, because Mycroft definitely deserved that.

\----  
and given one of these.”

Here she pulls up the sleeve of her hoodie to reveal a metal band secured tightly around her wrist. There's an inscription etched into it in plain black text that reads;

EURUS ANNABETH HOLMES  
STATUS: DECEASED  
SECURITY RISK LEVEL: 11  
PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION  
DO NOT APPROACH UNACCOMPANIED  
PRIVILEGES: PERMANENTLY RESTRICTED

“They give all the patients a bracelet.” Sherlock takes up talking, pouring himself another cup of tea. “They've all got chips in them, with trackers- accept Eurus and I have broken ours, obviously. The risk level, one through ten, is usually evaluated upon arrival, but apparently the Holmes Protocol requires any incarcerated Holmes to be permanently label and eleven.”

“Wait, have you got one of those too?” Mary asks, leaning forwards and grabbing Sherlock wrist, exposing the little metal band biting into his bony wrist.

“So you've been in prison for the last two years!?” John asked in horror. “Mycroft locked you up with no contact with anyone!?”

“My God! Do you parents know!?” Mary suddenly realised, jumping in her seat

“Mummy!” Rosie complained, said “Mummy are Uncle Sherlock and Aunt Eurus criminals?”

“No! No, well, um, it's complicated, sweetie.” Mary stuttered out, because, really. Rosie was sitting at a table full of criminals guilty each of their own crimes, murder included, but that didn't mean she wasn't safe. “But your Uncle’s not a bad person, and you can always trust him, so I'm sure we can trust Eurus as well. Can't we Sherlock?” she gave Eurus a a cautious look.

“Ehhhhh. No. Wellll. In a pinch, but I wouldn't make her your first call for a babysitter.”

“Great. So what's going on, how'd you get out?”

“That's not important right now. Have you two not been watching the telly tonight?”

“Obviously they haven't Sherlock.”

Sherlock stands and immediately heads for the living room, the other following just into to see the tv flicker on.

To Moriarty's face.


End file.
